


Suprises

by olivemartini



Series: A Study in Sherlock [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, S1E03, after that pool scene with Moriarty, it's good just read it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 11:57:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15118919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olivemartini/pseuds/olivemartini
Summary: Sherlock isn't used to surprises, which is why when he's at that pool and watching John round the corner, that split second where the only logical explanation must have been that John was Moriarty the whole time (because who would really want to be flatmates -who would be able to be flat mates- with Sherlock Holmes?) and underneath the layer of utter shock and betrayal was something a little bit smug, a little bit flattered, a satisfied thought that went something like well done, because if nothing else, Sherlock Holmes loves a challenge.





	Suprises

Sherlock isn't used to surprises, which is why when he's at that pool and watching John round the corner, that split second where the only logical explanation must have been that John was Moriarty the whole time (because who would really want to be flatmates -who would be  _able_ to be flat mates- with Sherlock Holmes?) and underneath the layer of utter shock and betrayal was something a little bit smug, a little bit flattered, a satisfied thought that went something like  _well done,_ because if nothing else, Sherlock Holmes loves a challenge.

Not, of course, that it went anything like that, and even though Sherlock would never admit it ( _you have a heart, Moriarty had whispered, and I'm going to burn it, burn you and everything you love_ ), he couldn't help but be relieved at the second option, this idea that John was here because he was another one of the hostages, and in the back of his mind, tucked in some dusty corner of his mind palace, Sherlock knew the only reason he didn't come to that conclusion in the first place is that still, after everything, all the times that John had proved himself here to stay, Sherlock is still expecting him to walk away.  

"You thought it was me,"  John said, after, a statement and not a question.  It was late, late enough that Sherlock had thought that they were going to do nothing more than disappear into their separate areas of the flat, John to collapse on his bed for a night of pained sleep and Sherlock to pore over experiments that prove no other purpose than to give him a distraction, but he was wrong.  "When I walked into that pool.  It was me."

He hadn't asked, yet, why Sherlock had gone to meet Moriarty without telling him.  He hadn't bothered to lay the blame at Sherlock's feet for what had happened tonight, even though they both knew it was because of his own tendency to rush at danger that John was forced to walk around with a bomb strapped to his chest.  Sherlock is grateful, because he had heard the other whispers, and does not want to hear his reasoning displayed out in the quiet of the night, with the chlorine still clinging to their clothes and singe marks biting at their skin, because it would just seem to utterly selfish.

 _He made it quiet, John._ He would have to tell him, if he asked, would have to give this feeble reasoning, because Sherlock owed him that much.   _This mind of mine is not like yours, it never quiets, do you have any idea what that feels like, never being able to be quiet, never able to power down, like it feels like you are constantly sprinting when the rest of the world is moving at a snail crawl, and here, finally, John, was someone that could match my pace, someone who could ease the exhaustion of my own ground down existence._

"It was the logical conclusion, yes."

Sherlock did not apologize, even though he wants to.  The person that he has told himself he needs to become does not apologize, so often because when he tries, he finds that he can never find the right words, the right moment, the right thing to say sorry for.  He's found it to be so much easier, when people expect the worst from you at the very beginning.  With John, though, he almost wants to try.

(He does try, sometimes.  It works, on occasion.  Other times it doesn't.  John seems to appreciate the effort, so he keeps trying.)

"So, you thought, what?"  John lowered himself onto the kitchen chair with a grimace and after an anxious pause where Sherlock stood with his hands fluttering at his sides, wanting to help but not knowing how, he decided to put on a kettle of tea, try to add some semblance of normalcy with this conversation.  "That I've been living here with you all these weeks, gathering intel, watching you spin?"

"Something of that nature, yes."   _Not exactly.  Not really.  More like I thought that Mike didn't do a very good job of explaining what you were getting yourself into, that you were going to come here and realize that you were in over your head, and even though I have stopped expecting to wake up and find all your things up and gone, even though I have stopped looking for the signs, sometimes I can't quite convince myself that you are anything but a figment of my imagination, that you are here, that you want me, too._ "I don't know everything."

 _He's smarter than me,_ is what Sherlock could have said then, admitting the fear that has been tying his stomach into knots since he first heard the name, when the anticipation of finally knowing that he was not the only one tipped into the idea that he and Moriarty were not the same, really, because he would never do the things that Moriarty does.  Or maybe,  _I thought I was walking into the ending,_ but he doesn't want to say that, either, because even though Sherlock knows that the end of this consulting detective business will be short and quite messy, he does not think John would take kindly to the idea of another one of his friends walking straight towards the barrel of a loaded gun.  Or even _I didn't think of you because I didn't think anyone else could see how much I care about you, I'm sorry, John, forgive me_ but that was giving away too much.

"I'm not that good of an actor, Sherlock."  John shifts in his seat to stare up at him and Sherlock is struck by the thought how absurd this all is, the two of them, working together, the seemingly random string of events that had brought them here together and for a moment he entertained the idea of fate, of destiny, maybe even the possibility of soul mates, but then he shook his head as if to clear it and shoved those away, pushed them back to where he could recall them later, sometime where John was not in front of him and reading all the thoughts that were playing across his face.  "I suppose you want me to say it, don't you?"

"Say what,"  Sherlock said, half listening, mostly just looking at the kettle, because it had been so long since he had done something as normal as make a pot of tea and does not want to mess it up, partially because he wants to do something nice for John and partially because he is afraid that this, too, would be another one of his faults that would worm their way into John's blog for the whole world to know.  He cannot decide if not knowing how to make tea is more or less embarrassing than not knowing the solar system, and decides that he would rather not find out.

"That I'm not him.  That there are no motives here."  John's eyes were intense, boring into him, and it was like that night at Angelo's again, the words that Sherlock took to mean as something more, when really all John was trying to say that it was fine, all fine, and even though he had meant it only about Sherlock being gay, for a moment Sherlock tricked himself into believing that it could have encompassed everything else, too, all these little quirks that people want to change.  "Just John Watson, ex-army man, with a failing career as a doctor, runs an increasingly popular blog when he has the time, and who came to you simply because he was looking for a flat mate.  No evil plans.  No bigger man pulling the strings.  Just me."

It was a good speech. "I hate your blog."

"I know."  John stood up, that pained look on his face, and for a moment Sherlock thought about demanding that he sit back down, let Sherlock see what was hurting him so much, but then he bit his lip and swallowed the offer down, because that would involve touching, touching and being close and seeing the prove of what their friendship had done to him, and there is always the chance that John might look up and see the depth of emotion on Sherlock's face.  "I hate yours, too."

Sherlock didn't really hate it.  He just hated how it made him sound, sometimes, like he was half a god in one second and an idiot the next.

"I'm just your friend."  John had his hands on Sherlock's shoulders now, and it hurt because he was still sore from the force of the explosion, but he does not ask him to stop, just leans into his touch.  "Always going to be your friend, Sherlock.  You never have to worry about that."

He wishes he could make himself believe him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on Instagram @olive.writes.fanfic


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